


Two Roses

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Engagement, F/M, Mild Smut, One Shot, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime tries to heal an old wound with a new gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Miss_M for her beta on this.

The early evening sun was dipping below Winterfell's walls when Jaime left the Great Keep and made his way to the armory. 

He found Brienne just where he expected, in the yard relentlessly attacking a straw dummy with a tourney sword. Oathkeeper rested atop Brienne's discarded jerkin on a nearby hay bale. A winter rose lay beside the sword, frost blue petals bright against the gold lions and glinting rubies. Those damned roses, given to another Stark girl, had started a war once.

Podrick had walked into the Great Hall looking so pleased with himself, clutching two winter roses. Lady Stark had been listening to grievances and requests from the smallfolk, tired but regal seated in her father’s massive chair. Her eyes had lit up when she saw Pod standing in the line, patiently waiting his turn. Pod had hardly stuttered at all when he presented Lady Sansa with a single rose. Jaime remembered basking in the warmth of Cersei’s smile at Pod’s age, though Cersei had never been a maid to swoon over a mere rose. 

But then Pod had grinned and offered his second rose to Brienne, who stood just behind Lady Stark. Brienne had frozen, her expression briefly wounded, then stony. She’d thanked Pod and almost immediately left the audience chamber. Jaime had followed her as quickly as he could without drawing attention, soothing the boy’s injured pride before he made his way toward the practice yard.

Brienne hesitated when she noticed Jaime, but continued hacking at the defenseless dummy when he did not speak. 

Jaime picked up the rose, leaned against the wall beside the hay bale. He idly twirled the bloom between his fingers as he watched Brienne. Her strikes were brutal, focused, her breath coming hard. Jaime wondered whose face she saw when she struck. 

"The boy didn't mean anything by it," he pointed out. 

Brienne shot him a baleful glare and impaled the dummy on her blade, released her grip on the hilt. The dummy disintegrated, the blade falling to the dirt in a shower of mildewed straw. 

"I know that," she said tersely, wiping her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. Brienne's tunic was pale blue, well worn, sleeves rolled up over her strong, tanned forearms. The laces at her neck had come undone, exposing a sliver of creamy skin dusted with freckles and the silvery scar that ringed her throat like a gruesome necklace. Podrick had a matching scar.

"Podrick thought you'd like his gift, wench. Lady Sansa was quite charmed by hers," Jaime pointed out. 

The rose was a fitting token for the Stark girl. Jaime didn’t need to look at Lady Sansa's Tully blue eyes to know that the flower matched them. Sometimes Jaime saw Catelyn Stark in her daughter’s gaze, heaping every sin of House Lannister on his shoulders. When Jaime could not bear the girl's judgement any longer, he would seek out the deeper blue of Brienne's eyes. His wench was sometimes cross with him, often exasperated, but the scorn of their early days was a distant memory. 

"Pod should have given both to Lady Sansa then," Brienne grumbled. 

Jaime shook his head, pointed the rose at her. "Podrick is a household knight and an orphan. You know he cannot openly court the Lady of Winterfell." 

She looked shamefaced at that. The young Ser Podrick Payne's rather foolish adoration of Lady Stark was no secret to anyone in the castle, no matter how often Pod denied it, stuttering through a red-faced acknowledgment that he would never be an acceptable match for her. Lady Sansa was fond of him as well, but no more than that. 

The Kingslayer could not court the heiress of Tarth either, but at least Jaime's affections were returned. It might have been easier if they hadn’t been.   

“He’s only a child,” Brienne chided, pushing aside her sword to sit on the hay bale. 

Pod was still small for his age, but he was no younger than Sansa. The girl had been wed once already, and she would need to wed again to secure Winterfell’s future. By Pod’s age, Jaime had been a Kingsguard and Robb Stark a king. Yet Brienne still saw the young knight as the half-starved, nearly mute boy who’d followed her to Duskendale. There was no point in reminding her that Pod was growing up. 

“And it was only a rose,” Jaime countered, touching the offending bloom to the back of her rough hand.

Brienne flinched. "I know."

Jaime moved the rose up her forearm, keeping the petals light against her skin. To any other woman, perhaps, it was just a rose. Not to Brienne. He’d been surprised by the vehemence of her reaction, until he remembered Red Ronnet’s smug face as he’d told Jaime of their betrothal. “What color did Connington give you?” 

She glared at him, daring him to speak that name again. 

Jaime had had no choice but to tell Brienne about his confrontation with Red Ronnet when they had encountered him among the men of the Night’s Watch. Taking the black had not improved Connington’s behavior, and less than a fortnight had passed before Ronnet found an opportunity to corner Brienne and question how long she’d been sucking Lannister cock. Brienne had broken his nose and spread word among Castle Black’s wildling women that Ronnet wasn’t worth taking into their beds.

Jaime dropped his gaze back to the rose. Sky blue, with darker veins, a darker center. Petals as soft as a maiden's lips. The boy had removed its thorns, but his gift had wounded Brienne regardless.

"A red rose," Jaime guessed. "For his House."

Brienne's expression clouded, her hands balled into tight fists against her breeches. “Your colors too,” she muttered.

Lannister crimson and gold. Connington’s blood on Jaime’s golden hand. The few Lannisters left would likely never see each other again, and none remained in positions of power. Jaime was no longer welcome south of the Neck, but he felt lucky to still have a head on his shoulders.

“I’m not much of a lion these days, wench, but I’m no Ronnet Connington either.” Jaime stood, offered her the rose. 

"I know you’re not." Brienne sighed, took the flower and held it gingerly between two fingers, as if it might bite. 

Shadows were creeping across the yard. This far north, darkness fell late in summer. After so long rising and fighting in darkness, Jaime still felt strange waking each morning to a world of sun and warmth. Strange making plans beyond today. 

But the world was moving on, carrying them along with it. While Jaime had quietly worked to put together a modest dowry to offer Lord Selwyn, Brienne’s father had solidified his position by betrothing his daughter to the Tyroshi sellsword who’d been named Lord of Storm’s End. Never mind that Brienne found the notion of trading loyalty for coin abhorrent. In truth, Jaime doubted Lord Selwyn had been given much choice.

Brienne pretended she was considering defying her father’s wishes, but it was only a matter of time before she went home. Even now, Brienne would not look at Jaime. 

He left the yard before she could confirm his fears. 

 

* * *

 

Darkness cloaked the corridors of the Great Keep when Jaime made his way to Brienne's chamber. He hesitated with his hand on the door. Jaime did not come to her every night. He had always waited for a look, a smile, a stolen kiss in the corridors. But they might have precious few nights left; Jaime would not waste one.

The door opened easily, and Jaime barred it behind him. Twenty years of secret visits to another woman had taught him a measure of caution. He’d taken far too many risks with Cersei, and no good had come from it. At least Jaime’s visits to Brienne wouldn’t earn him execution if discovered, only the ire of Lord Selwyn and likely Lady Stark as well. 

Brienne’s small chamber had once belonged to Sansa Stark. The old narrow bed had been replaced with a larger, roughly-hewn bedstead that took up half the room. There was space for Brienne’s armor, a trunk of clothes, and a small writing desk. The rose lay on the desk beside a quill and blank parchment. 

After so long on the road and among men she could not trust, Brienne felt safe in this modest room. His wench lay sprawled asleep on her belly atop the blankets, her linen shift rucked up around her thighs. Much as Jaime was enjoying the view, he’d need to cover her up. Days were now balmy, but the nights remained cool. Even now a fire burned in the hearth, bathing Brienne in flickering firelight. 

The Northerners, Lady Sansa in particular, had teased Pod and Brienne about their thin southron blood when both had complained about the continuing chill. That evening, Brienne had returned to her chambers to find a mound of extra blankets heaped on her bed. Jaime had laughed and borne her down into the blankets with him, tickling her mercilessly until their wrestling had turned into something else.

They’d made good memories in this room. Jaime was determined to give her at least one more. 

Once Jaime undressed, he took the bloom from Brienne’s desk. She stirred, but did not wake when he sat beside her. He lightly stroked the rose’s petals along the bottom of her foot, up her calf, to the long, powerful muscles of her thigh. He'd traced that path with fingers and lips many times. 

Jaime saw Brienne stiffen in the moment she woke, realized she wasn’t alone. Slowly, he drew the rose down her leg, until she sighed and shivered at his touch. 

Brienne turned her head, opened her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would come," she said quietly. 

"I wasn't sure you'd let me in."

Brienne shook her head, looked up at him with dark blue eyes Jaime could drown in. He had drowned in them many nights, happily. She turned onto her side, watched as Jaime trailed the rose along the hem of her shift.

The last person he wanted Brienne to think of in their bed was Ronnet Connington. But Jaime itched to stroke the soft skin of her inner thigh, to suck at the tender skin of her throat where she smelled of leather and steel. 

Brienne plucked the rose from his hand. It fell to the blankets, crushed into the bedding as she pulled him down to her. Though he held himself above her, Jaime had no illusions that he was in control. Brienne’s strong hands on his back and in his hair directed him. 

Whatever she wanted, Jaime gave her. They’d played this game often in the beginning, when Brienne was too shy to tell him what she liked, what she needed. Jaime kissed her lips swollen and red, suckled her breasts through the thin linen, a trick he’d used often when baring herself to him made Brienne more nervous than aroused. 

She was writhing beneath him by the time Jaime stripped off her damp smallclothes and settled between her legs. He kissed her inner thighs, relished how she moaned and trembled when he finally tasted her. She filled his senses, the heady musk of her arousal and the sharp, green sweetness of roses. Jaime wanted to tease her, to draw this out until she begged, but someone might find them, someone might see—

A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine. That was wrong. Disoriented, he lifted his head. 

Brienne looked down at him, dazed, chest heaving, his name a question on her well-kissed lips. Not Cersei hidden in the gardens of the Rock. Brienne with crushed rose petals in her bed at Winterfell. Brienne, who Jaime wanted to forget all about Red Ronnet’s rejection, to think only of this night when she saw roses, years from now in the Stormlands.

The thought of Brienne leaving cleared his head. Jaime crawled up her body, kissed belly and breast and throat along the way, until he could kiss her mouth. He watched Brienne’s face, her eyes grown dark and her unmarked cheek flushed as she wrapped her strong legs around his back, drew him inside her. 

This might be the last night they shared. Jaime pushed away that unwelcome thought, banished the image of Brienne in the arms of a flamboyant Tyroshi. Jaime rained kisses on her cheeks, her lips, her jaw, indulged himself by sucking a red mark beneath her collarbone. 

Brienne was still his, damn her father and her betrothed. She panted Jaime’s name, clutched his back and his arse, drove him into her harder until she cried out and shuddered beneath him. Jaime found just enough control to spill in the sheets, instead of inside her where he so desperately wanted to stay. 

“I love you,” Brienne whispered sometime later, her breath warming his skin.

Jaime didn’t need to hear it, had felt the truth of those words deep in his bones long before they’d ever passed her lips, but he would listen gratefully as many times as she wanted to say it. 

Brienne did need to hear it, so he echoed her words, kissed her temple and swallowed what he wanted to say.  _Stay with me._ Not just here in this bed, but in Winterfell, in the North. Without Brienne here, Jaime wouldn’t stay much longer, just long enough to see the Stark girl wed. Once that was done, Jaime would try to find somewhere in the vast North where he wasn’t immediately recognized and scorned. 

Brienne fell asleep quickly, but Jaime held on a while longer, stroking her back, memorizing the shape of her mouth, how she fit in his arms. He rarely slept beside Brienne the entire night, conditioned by both his sister and the Kingsguard to wake before dawn, but the way she slept curled up with him, utterly relaxed and trusting, was one of the things he’d miss most.

Brienne still feared they would be caught together by a maid coming in to tend her fire or bring in laundry. Jaime didn't have the heart to point out that the maids surely knew. How could they not, when they often washed his seed from her sheets?

Pod knew, and Lady Sansa at least suspected. The castle gossip had been harmless before the raven had come from Tarth. Then Brienne had locked herself away from everyone, even Lady Stark, for five days. Pod had scarcely moved from her door, determined to fetch anything his lady should need. 

Jaime had knocked on her door once. The guilt in Brienne’s reddened eyes had driven him away more effectively than scorn or anger. She never would have bedded him if she'd expected another betrothal. 

On the fifth night, Jaime had woken to find Brienne in his bed, her mouth greedy on his. He’d tasted the salty tears dried on her cheeks, felt her desperation in how tightly she held him. Jaime had poured all of his love and desire for Brienne into their coupling, certain she would be gone by morning.

But Brienne hadn’t left Winterfell, and nearly a moon’s turn had passed since then. Jaime had asked her to stay that night, just once. Brienne had reminded him that her first duty was to her father and not spoken of it again. 

Jaime wanted to argue with her, wanted to send his own message back to Tarth, but Brienne would not thank him for either. All he could do was wait. Jaime had already spent half his life waiting; what was a few more days?

When Jaime woke before dawn, he was alone in bed. Brienne sat at her desk, quill in hand. As he watched, she sighed heavily and dropped the quill. Jaime closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. Brienne had done this before, several times, and nothing had come of it. 

The sun was rising when Jaime opened his eyes again, Brienne sleeping pressed against his back. The parchment was rolled and sealed on the desk. That afternoon, Brienne would take her message to the rookery. For good or ill, she had answered Lord Selwyn’s summons. 

 

* * *

 

_ Lord Selwyn Tarth _  
_ Evenfall Hall _  
_ Tarth _

_ Father, _  
_ I have begun writing this message many times, and burned them all. It grieves me to disappoint you again, but I must. I cannot leave Winterfell. Lady Sansa Stark is still young and vulnerable, and those bannermen remaining to her have their own interests at heart. I will not leave her as I left her mother.  _  
_ You told me once that you wished for me to find purpose and companionship, as you did. Trust that I have found both here, and I am happy. I will write to Storm's End to break the betrothal. I may wed someday, but it will be my choice, not to secure an alliance. _

_ Keep safe and be well.  _

_ Your loving daughter, _  
_ Brienne of Tarth _  
_ Winterfell _

 


End file.
